


Tuck and Bratt in the PM

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, College, F/F, F/M, Hypnotism, Master/Slave, Porn With Plot, Radio, Sexism, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A desperate college student takes a staff job at a sexist radio show.  She is hypnotized and put on the air… and then all Hell breaks loose.





	1. I Really Need an Internship

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

**_Atlanta, 1996_ **

 

“Are you **_sure_** you want to work there?” Mrs. Hallows asks me for the umpteenth time.

I regard the forty-something woman, with her frumpy hair, pink suitcoat, and double chin.  I can’t decide if I should take her as motherly or patronizing.

“ ** _Yes,_** ” I assure her, probably with a little too much exasperation.  “I’ll be **_fine._** ”

Mrs. Hallows frowns, resigning to defeat.  “I lobbied the administration to reject their internship posting,” she mutters to herself.  “ ** _That place_** is a class-action sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to explode.”

I impatiently sigh glance at my watch; I’m nearly late for class.  “I’ll need your approval,” I gruffly remind the adviser.

Sighing and shaking her head, Mrs. Hallows logs into her ancient computer and starts filling out my approval form.  “Your full name?” she asks dully.

“Jessica Eva Mendes,” I recite, already zipping up my bag.

I’m an MS (Media Studies) major out of Perimeter College, a school within Georgia State.  A hard requirement for graduation… one that I’ve been putting off for too long now… is a Production internship.  I’m the only graduating senior who needs to check this box.

I need a radio internship.  The problem is, there’s only so many in the greater Atlanta area.  The local NPR station has already picked their interns, as has WKHX-FM, WWPW, WNNX, WAMJ, WRDA, WRAS, WWWQ, WHTA, WVEE, WSTR, and WSRV.  And most of the AM stations can’t support interns.

And before you ask, **_no_** , I can’t pack my bags and go to New York or San Fran for six weeks.  Mom’s chemo starts pretty soon, and… well, I can’t go.  I need an internship **_here_** in Atlanta, it **_has_** to pay something, and it **_has_** to count for MS credit.

Of course, I couldn’t look for an internship until… well, until last week.  Tending to Mom’s cancer has screwed up my schedule like you wouldn’t believe.  I’d completely forgotten about the Production internship until my girlfriend Kat gently reminded me about it.  And by then… there was literally only one internship available.  I **_HAVE_** to get this internship, or I don’t graduate.  Simple as that.

“Okay then,” Mrs. Hallows clucks, typing a few last words, then hitting PRINT.  We both watch as her Reagan-era dot matrix printer clacks out the completed form.

“Here,” she sighs, tearing the form free.  She signs it on the bottom.  “Take this to the Registrar before 5:00 pm on Friday.”

I go to snatch the paper from her fat hand.

“Jessica,” Mrs. Hallows says firmly, surprising me with her harsh tone.  “You really need to take care.  **_That show_** is a sleazy pit of moral decadence.  I’ve heard of other girls who worked there, only to… well…  I legally can’t say, but…  Just be careful, promise me, okay?”

I try to grab the form.

“ ** _Promise_** me?” repeats Mrs. Hallows.

“I promise, I promise,” I say, openly annoyed now.

The advisor surrenders the form without another word.  I glance at the paper, just to make sure all is in order:

**_GS Undergraduate Advising Form 192-A:  Internship Registration Permission Form_ **

**_MS 402 :: Internship for Credit  (3 Crts)_ **

**_Jessica Eva Mendes is approved for a for-credit internship, commencing Monday, June 3 rd, 1996 at…_ **

I scan.  All that matters is that the show itself is on the form.  I half-expect that meddling ol’ Mrs. Hallows will omit it, just to be a bitch.  If that’s the case, then-

Wait.  There it is:

**_Intern Sponsor:  WWGX Radio Station_ **

**_Media Program:  “Tuck and Bratt in the PM”_ **

**_Approved:  Susan Hallows, Assistant Dean of Admissions._ **

“Awesome, thank you,” I say flippantly, and take off before Mrs. Hallows can lecture me again.

******

I get home after 9 PM, my hair smelling like fry grease.  I’ve just finished an evening shift at Wendy’s after a full day on campus, and my feet are killing me.  The house is nearly-silent.

Well, that’s not totally true.  My three older deadbeat brothers, Jesse, Frank, and Horace, are in the basement playing a computer game.  Something loud with a lot of explosions.  I hear the three jerks snorting with laughter and tossing foul insults at one another.

I sigh.  My dad, God rest his soul, was a TV producer.  All of his children went to school for media production.  Jesse, Frank, and Horace all got the same degree I am chasing now, but they’ve had abominable luck finding work.  I hope when I graduate I’ll have better luck than they did.

In the living room, parked in her dilapidated recliner, is Mom.  She’s glued to an old rerun of The Jeffersons and – I let out a furious hiss here – smoking a cigarette.  There’s already three more cigarette butts in her ashtray.

“Mom!” I screech, and snatch the cancer stick from her gnarled fingers.  “Jesus Christ, you’re going in for lung cancer chemo tomorrow!”

“Hi baby,” my sad ol’ mum smiles at me.  “How was-“

“ ** _Goddamn it_** , Mom,” I swear, rifling through her purse.  There.  There’s her cigarettes.  I confiscate the entire pack.  No doubt she has more, but I’m not going to let her smoke these.

From downstairs, I hear my stupid brothers whoop as someone in their computer game gets blown up.  Why am I the only sane adult in this family?

******

Two days later, the bad news hits when I get home late from work.  “ _Hey there… this is a message for Jessica Mendes,_ ” a woman’s sweet voice on our answering machine says.  “ _This is Bitzy from ‘Tuck and Bratt in the PM.’  I’m sorry, but we can’t accept your internship application at this time.  Thanks for applying, though._ ”

I cuss up a major storm.  No fucking internship?  **_No FUCKING internship?_**   I’m fucked.  **_Totally fucked._**   No internship means I can’t graduate in December, and my college loans are max’ed out.  I **_need_** a fucking internship this summer or…  Or I’ll be working at Wendy’s the rest of my fucking life.  A Wendy’s team member with a nearly-completed degree in MS.  Jesus Christ.

Trembling with dread and rage, I go into the back yard, sit on our old tire swing, and sob furiously.  Omigod, is the universe determined to fuck me over?

Once I get the tears out, I grit my teeth.  I take stock.  How can I make lemonade from lemons here?

******

The next morning, I skip class and drive downtown.  According to the paperwork at MS Advising, “Tuck and Bratt in the PM” broadcasts from 646 Maple St, a drab-looking skyscraper.  I grab some dubious parking, then march into the lobby, determined to get in to “Tuck and Bratt’s” studios.  I’ll scale the exterior of the building with a grappling hook, Batman-style, if I have to.

In the hopes of flirting my way past building security, I’m dressed as a major slut for the occasion.  I have a low-cut top, my microskirt, heels, and heavy makeup.  My hair is loosely pinned up, but with a few strands dangling for effect.  With my boobs popping and my ass perky and pushed up, I look like I’m here for a Playboy shoot.  Or to turn a trick.

“Hi,” I say to the two lobby guards, flashing my brightest smile.  “I’m Jessica Mendes, here for a job interview with ‘Tuck and Bratt?’”

Of course, I have no such interview.  Once the guards call up and learn this, I’ll pretend to be confused, drop that Bitzy’s name, show off my school’s approval form, flirt, do whatever I have to to get on that elevator.

The heavy-set guards look at me, at my boobs, at me again, at my boobs again, and then shrug.  “Seventh floor,” one of them grunts, pushing a temporary pass at me.  “Have a nice day.”

Wow, that was… easy.  Maybe Tuck and Bratt regularly invite a lot of busty women up into their studio?

I ride up the elevator, getting super-nervous.  I’ve got my foot in the door.  What now?

******

The seventh floor is dark, and it smells musky.  I step off the elevator into a reception area that is **_plastered_** with posters of almost-naked women, football stars, and reptiles.  A young woman sits behind a desk, but she doesn’t so much as glance at me as I approach.  She’s wearing a tank top, tiny jean shorts, and cheap flip-flops.  Oh, and no bra.

The office speakers are on, and I can hear what I assume is the show.  A husky male voice booms out, “ _…and we’re back, Atlanta dudes!  What’s hillin’?_ ”

“ _Hillin’?_ ” a second voice responds, this one nasal and high-pitched.  “ _Hillin’?  Bro, I keep asking you.  Seriously, now, what’s_ **hillin’?** ”

“ _Hillin’, bro,_ ” Husky Voice responds.  “ _That’s hangin’ and chillin’.  Hillin’.  Get with the slang, dawg._ ”

Nasal Voice grunts.  “ _We gotta get with somethin’, doughboy.  You ready for today’s Philosophical Discourse?_ ”

“Excuse me,” I say to the barely-dressed receptionist.  She is intently painting her nails a hideous pink, and looks annoyed that I’ve intruded.

When the chick doesn’t utter a word, I say:  “I’m here to see Bitzy?  I’m Jessica Mendes.”

The receptionist makes a show of rolling her eyes, but gets up and walks into the back room.  I can’t help but notice her thong underwear is riding too high up her skinny hips.

Meanwhile, the show is going on:

Husky Voice:  “ _Philosophical Discourse?  Bam!  Hook me up, dawg.  What classical deliberation shall we have today?_ ”

Nasal Voice:  “ _Resolved:  Who has the greatest ass?  Kathy Ireland, Claudia Schiffer… or Shae Marks?_ ”

Husky Voice snorts, right into the mike.  “ _Shae Marks?  Who the >umph< is Shae Marks?_”

Nasal Voice:  “ _You got a computer, fool.  Dial up that sh-_ “

He starts to say “shit,” but they play a bike horn over the actual obscenity.

I hear a keyboard chatter, and then Husky Voice exclaims, “ _Whoooooa mamma!  Jeez, is she, what a Triple-Triple D?_ ”

A sound effect of screeching tires is played.  “ _You just heard every red-blooded male stampede to a working computer to download a pict of Shae Marks and her booty,_ ” announces Nasal Voice.

The side door opens, and the scantily-clad receptionist returns, another woman coming with her.  I smile.  This woman is probably my age, shorter and with a great yoga body.  Her black hair compliments her delicate, beautiful Asian features.  Like the receptionist, she isn’t wearing much.

“Can I help you?” the Asian woman asks, in a perfect California accent.  I recognize her voice from her voicemail message; this is Bitzy.

“Hi,” I say, thrusting my hand forward.  “I’m Jessica Mendes, I applied for the internship?  I know you called me earlier, but I was hoping we could talk about-“

“We don’t have an internship for you, chick,” Bitzy says rudely.  She presses her lips together, and her eyes sweep over my body.

“Listen,” I say, fighting desperation.  “I have a lot to offer, and I really, really need this internship.  Like… it’s a matter of me graduating or not.”

“Gee, that’s sad,” Bitzy drawls, not sounding sad at all.  “But we aren’t taking internships anymore.  Our last intern… well, she…”

The receptionist’s eyes widen.

“Nothing,” Bitsy snaps.  “Look, this is a hard place to work.  The boys, they’re difficult bosses.  You wouldn’t like them, trust me.”

Meanwhile, the show is playing over our conversation.  Husky Voice:  “ _Okay, I’m thinking Shae Marks – whom I have amazingly never heard of until today – gets the FAA (Fabulous Ass Award), because I’m looking at_ **both** _of her naked cheeks, right now._ ”

Nasal Voice agrees:  “ _Seriously, man.  You can download and admire Shae’s twin hammies.  But we ain’t never gonna see Kathy or Claudia’s nude butt, that’s fer sure._ ”

Husky Voice:  “ _On the other hand…_ ”

Nasal:  “ _Oh?_ ”

Husky:  “ _Aw, dang it.  I need to take a_ **major** _dump.  You debate, I’ll be back.  Ten minutes._ ”

“Look,” I say pointedly to Bitzy.  “Hear those two?  They sound like my brothers.  I’m used to living with overage, horny men-children.  I can handle this job.”

Bitzy purses her lips, still deeply skeptical.

Suddenly, another door bangs open, and a scrawny fellow hurries through.  He is mid-twenties, dressed in a faded Metallica concert tee shirt, ripped jeans, and cowboy boots.  His hair is long and flowing, and he must use about a gallon of conditioner every morning.  Like, for real, I wish I had his locks.  His face is pointed and hawk-like, and not unattractive.  Not handsome, either, though.

The guy bustles through the reception area, not glancing at Bitzy or the receptionist.  He does, however, stare at me, and specifically, everything between my shoulders and knees.

With one mighty leap, the guy throws himself into the air, landing heavily on both feet just before me.  I nearly squeak with fright.  He reminds me of a rowdy nine-year-old boy who lives on my block and likes jumping at you just to scare you.

“Heh,” the guy grins, and immediately I realize he’s Husky Voice.

The man’s smile grows wider as his eyes half-close.  He reaches for me, inserting his hands beneath my armpits, then greedily slides them down my torso.  After his paws swarm over my hips, he brings them back up and cups my boobs.  He doesn’t squeeze, he simply lifts them gently.

My mouth drops open in shock.  When I dressed like a tramp for this job interview, I thought I’d get ogled.  But not groped.

With no trace of shame or hesitation, the man leans forward, waaaaaaaaaay forward, almost inserting his nose into my cleavage.  He inhales deeply, as if savoring a red wine before drinking it.

“Nice,” Husky Voice comments, releasing me.  He continues through the reception area, heading for the bathrooms.  “You here for a job, Toots?”

Oh.  He’s addressing me.

“Yes!” I blurt out.  “Yes, yessir, I’m Jess-“

“Great,” the man interrupts.  “I’m Tuck, I’m taking the world’s biggest dump, welcome aboard.”

To Bitzy, he barks, “She starts today, get me?  Staffer position.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Bitzy shrugs her shoulders, uncaring in defeat.  “Let’s begin your paperwork,” she tells me.

The receptionist, back to painting her nails, is shaking her head.

******

Bitzy leads me into the back offices of “Tuck and Bratt,” which is like a corporate cubicle farm, a submarine, and a frat house all rolled into one.  Young women, all very attractive, all wearing little, are bunched up two or three to a desk, all working computers or phones.  There are piles of dirty magazines and pizza boxes and empty CD jewel cases and phone books and discarded tee shirts everywhere.  I am constantly lifting my feet up to keep from tripping on something.

The beautiful Bitzy leads me into a tiny office, instructing me to shut the door.  “You’ll be an entry-level staffer,” she says, pulling blank forms out of a filing cabinet.  “You know what that means?”

“No idea,” I admit.

“You’re one of twenty girls,” Bitzy explains, “who is responsible for the show’s content.  Take a look at this; its today’s schedule.”

I take a printed sheet of paper from her hand:

**_Tuck and Bratt in the PM  --  6/3/96_ **

**_2:00 to 2:15  ::  Show Open_ **

**_2:15 to 3:00  ::  Greatest Fart Jokes in History_ **

**_3:00 to 3:30  ::  Porn Stars April Luxx and Iveka Cuma have orgasms on-air_ **

**_3:30 to 4:00  ::  Call-in.  Topic: Women Can’t Really Fake It, Can They?_ **

**_4:00 to 5:00  ::  Rating All NFL Cheerleaders, Which Have the Best Bods?_ **

“Jesus,” I exclaim, before I can stop myself.

“That’s just today’s show,” says Bitzy, ignoring my comment.  “Tomorrow’s show is being scheduled now.  You’ll be working on that.  You’ll also have to attend production meetings and pitch segment ideas to the guys.”

“Uh…” I say, “what are the hours here?”

Bitzy flashes an annoyed look.  “We broadcast the show live from two to five PM, every weekday,” she says.  “You’ll need to be here from one to maybe seven PM, sometime later, every day.”

My face falls.  I’m hoping for an internship, a bullshit part-time job where I fetch coffee and stock the computer printers and get college credit.  This will be a **_real job_**.  How am I supposed to take classes in the day?

“Com’on, now,” Bitzy frowns.  “You want the job or not?  Fill these out.”

She pushes a small stack of employment forms at me.

I size up my options.  (A) I can flee, hope that I can somehow locate some other internship somehow, continue working at Wendy’s, and…  Well, hope for the best.  Or, (B) I can quit Wendy’s, work here, and just slug it out for six weeks.  Then I should be able to convince Dean Hallows that working here **_should_** count as an internship, right?  And while this place is incredibly sleazy… I can hold my own against my sexist bosses.  I think.

As I flip through the papers, a form I’ve never see before appears.  “What’s this?” I ask.

Bitzy squints in the dim light.  “Oh, that’s medical insurance.  Tuck and Bratt may be soulless dicks, but they offer a descent health benefits package.”

My eyebrows lift.  Medical insurance?  I’ve never had that before.

I sigh and pick up a pen.

******


	2. Behind the Scenes

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

I start the job right away.  After Bitzy files my paperwork – which seems to consist of shoving all of it into a cabinet – I am led to a desk, already populated by two other girls my age.

“Hi,” say Bethany.

“S’up?” greets Mary Louise.

I can’t help but notice: neither of these ladies are wearing a top.

“You girls show Jessica here the ropes?” Bitzy says airily.  “Good luck, Jess…”  And then she floats away.

There are no available chairs in the cubicle, so I push old newspapers off a plastic milk crate and gingerly sit down.  “Soooo…” I say to my co-workers.  “Whaddya we do?”

The girls have an open phone book and are calling local strip clubs.  “We’re trying to hire two dancers to come here for a segment,” explains Bethany.  “Each girl will lap dance on Tuck and Bratt; whichever girl can get their boy to have a Big O first will win five thousand dollars.”

Before I can stop myself, I make a face.  “Ewww,” I grimace.

Mary Louise nods knowingly.  “I know,” she says.  “That’s what this job is.”

“How is that going to work… on the radio?” I ask incredulously.

“It’ll be funny…?” theorizes Bethany.

I **_seriously_** doubt her.  While I’m grateful for the employment, I’m wondering how the filthy little show hasn’t been fined out of existence by the FCC.  Where’s the Religious Right when you really need them?

******

The show ends at promptly at 5:00 PM.  Immediately, all the girls rise from the cramped desks.

“Staff meeting,” Mary Louise explains.  “We always pitch the next show after a broadcast.”

I swallow, trying not to think about my little 1983 Datsun, illegally parked off of Vine City Park.

Everyone files into a conference room.  The walls are decked with pornographic posters, save for a huge chalkboard / bulletin board on the far wall.  Two throne-like chairs dominate the head of the table; I’ve no doubt who those seats are for.

All the other chairs fill up with attractive young women, all barely dressed.  Odd, none of these women are wearing enough to walk down the street without getting a ticket for indecency.  Yet none of them seem aware of their nakedness.  They chat and flirt among each other, occasionally sending a sideways glance at me.

And then, the door at the back of the room opens.  Tuck bounds in, followed by the guy who must be Bratt.  Tuck is still as I remembered him; gorgeous flowing hair, sharp face, Metallica shirt, jeans, boots.  He’s lighting up a black cigarette as he strides in.

The second fellow looks pretty wild, too.  He’s definitely much more handsome, with a wiry frame, a square jaw, and bright eyes.  His hair is badly combed, yet still has this raw and sexy look to it.  I’m guessing this guy is… Cuban?  Either that, or he has a prize-winning tan.

As The Man Who Must Be Bratt flops into one of the two thrones, he grins at the ladies.  They blush and twitter back at him.

Good grief.

“Alright,” Tuck rumbles, ashing his cigarette directly on the conference table.  Its weird to hear such a deep voice booming from such a little guy.  “Whaddya we got for tomorrow?”

Girls from around the table start pitching ideas.  “You guys debate which are hotter: thongs or spaghetti bikini tops?” one woman offers.

“Eh,” replies Tuck.  “That’s really asking if you’re an ass or a breast man.  Next.”

Another chick:  “Which kind of Chinese food makes for the stinkiest poos?”

“Hmm,” Bratt muses, and I’m shocked that this idea is seriously considered as a topic.  “Yeah, maybe.  But we need to eat a lot and then shit a lot to figure that out, right?”

“But…” the pitching girl stammers, “…I thought you guys would already…”

“Already know if General Tzu’s or Beef with Broccoli makes for riper dumps?” Tuck interjects.

“Dude,” Bratt mutters, pretending to wave away a foul odor, “with you?  It’s the beef.”

Both men roar with immature laughter.

“Shelve that one for next week,” Tuck snorts.  “I’ll work on it between now and then.  What else?”

“What about,” asks Bratt, “that feature I wanted about measuring pussy depth?  Who was working on that?”

I am seriously getting sick to my stomach.  These guys make my brothers look like papal candidates.  Suddenly, I’m debating if I shouldn’t bug out and look for another internship.  Anywhere.

The two man-boys banter about ideas, but aren’t satisfied with much.  “ ** _Com’on_** , ladies,” snarls Tuck.  “You’re paid to come up with shit for us.  Why do me ‘n Bratt do all the work here?”

My disgust just quadrupled.  The dynamics of this show are pretty clear to me.  Tuck and Bratt somehow convinced their sponsors to pony up the budget for their show.  But rather than hire professional writers and a proper production staff, these two sleezeballs took all that money and hired a gaggle of hot bimbos to shake their tits at them.  These poor girls really don’t know anything about writing or producing a radio show.  They’re really here as Tuck and Bratt’s in-office eye candy.  This is pretty revolting.

The only thing I can’t figure out is…  **_Why are these women putting up with this?_**   The pay here isn’t that great.  Maybe its the benefits package?

“Okay,” grunted Tuck, dropping his lit cigarette butt and then crushing it against the carpet.  “So what you ladies are telling me is, we’ve basically got no show for tomorrow?  Fuckin’ A.”

“Hold up,” Bratt says, and I realize with a jolt, that he’s looking directly at me.

I was hoping I’d blend in.  In here, I’m the most conservatively dressed woman… which is saying something.

“Well, ’ello, ‘ello, ‘ello,” grins Bratt, waggling his eyebrows at me.

“Hello,” I say, wishing I could parachute out a window.  “I’m Jessica, I’m new as of today.  Thanks for this opportunity.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Tuck says to Bratt.  “I hired her this morning.  On my poop break.”

“Do **_you_** got anything for tomorrow’s show, Jessica?” asks Bratt.

“How about…”  I shrug.  “…the impact of sexual harassment legislation in the modern workforce?  Seems topical.”

The other girls gape at me.

“Pass,” Tuck says lazily.  He lights a second black cigarette.

Bratt snaps his fingers.  “You give me an idea, though,” he says, pointing at me.  “You come in two hours before the show, got it?  I want to review something with you.”

Tuck nods, in agreement.  I wonder what has just been agreed to here.

“Jessica and I will take care of the first hour of the show,” Bratt announces.  “That just leaves the last two hours.  What else can we do?”

******

I scamper out of 646 Maple St. after 7:05 PM, desperate to get to my car… if its still there.

No such luck.  My car has vanished.  I stand in Vine City Park as the sun sets, cursing like a madwoman.

Luckily I have a few quarters and there’s working pay phone at Magnolia and Graves.  A quick call to the APD confirms that my piece-of-shit Datsun is in the City Impound, which is better than it being stolen, I guess.  But now I need to scrape up **_three hundred dollars_** , which I don’t have.

I take the busses as far home as I can, then call my shiftless brothers to come and pick me up the rest of the way home.  Only Horace comes to get me.  Its after 11:30 PM.

“How’s Mom?” I ask wearily.

“…huh?” the idiot lughead says.  “Oh…  I dunno.”

“You don’t **_know?_** ” I growl, offended.  “Jesus, Hor, its only your **_mother_** who’s **_dying_** , you heartless freak.”  I spit out the last phrase with as much venom as I can muster.

Horace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not looking at me.  Right away, I know I’ve come down too hard on him.  Horace may be a lazy, immature turd, but he’s just as scared of losing Mom as I am.  I cope by trying to mother her.  He copes my retreating into his video games.

******

When we get home, Horace descends into the basement without a word to me.  That’s fine.  I’m so tired and anxious, I’d probably say something else I’d regret if we were to speak.

I creep into the TV room.  There is Mom, limp on the sofa, struggling to watch Jay Leno.  Chemo has really wiped out what little energy she had left.

Looking at her, I want to cry.  The vivacious woman who made me giggle when I was four and we made Rice Krispy Treats together… that woman seems to be nearly withered away.

I smell… a cigarette.

“ ** _Mom!_** ” I snap in exasperation.

“Hey baby,” wheezes Mom, peering up at me.  She’s happy to see me.

“Mom,” I grumble, choking back tears.  “Mom, you **_can’t_** smoke.  **_You can’t,_** do you hear me?”

I wrench the cigarette from her, stabbing it out in one angry stroke.

“Listen, Mom,” I say hurriedly.  “Today, I got a job.  Like, a real job, with benefits.  All I need to do is hold it down for six weeks.  But now that I have health insurance, we can-“

“Baby,” whispers Mom, a weary smile on her face.  She caresses my cheek, her bony hand trembling.  “Six weeks isn’t gonna cut it, baby.  Doctor says best case scenario is I’ll be on chemo for months.”

With a knowing look, she tells me, “We ain’t got the money for that.”

******

The next day, I go to the bank and close my checking account.  This gives me a whopping $138.28, all the money I have until my first “Tuck and Bratt” paycheck arrives.  I hope I can last.

I hitch a ride into GSU campus with Kat and then walk to 646 Maple St. for my second day of Real Radio Work.  As I go, I idly wonder how long my car can remain in impound?  If I’m lucky, the city will watch it for a few weeks while I get my financial shit together.

******

When I reach the “Tuck and Bratt” offices, I’m surprised that the place is dark and seems deserted.  The show is recorded from 2:00 to 5:00 PM; right now it’s a little before 11:00 AM.  Maybe Bratt was kidding when he told me to show up early…?

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeello?” I call out, as I wander past reception and into Cubicle City.

My stomach nearly heaves as a pair of cockroaches slither out from underneath a crumpled pizza box.  Goddamn, this place is **_filthy_**.

“Hey!” a slightly-accented male voice sings out behind me.

I whirl around, my heart pounding.  “ ** _SWEET JESUS!!!_** ” I roar out loud.

Bratt is behind me, looking sheepish.  “Hey Toots,” he says.  “Didn’t mean to scare ya.  Come on into me casa, we’ll talk about today’s show.”

I can’t help glaring at my new boss.  “The name’s Jessica,” I say curtly.

“Of course, Jessica, you got it,” mugs Bratt.  “Sorry, we call most of the girls here ‘Toots,’ its sort of like a common nickname.”

Uh-huh.

“Let’s talk about the show,” I say, forcing a smile.

Bratt waves invitingly with his hand, and we traverse to the other side of the office.  “Tuck and Bratt” seems to take up the entire floor of this building, with the girls’ cubicles and offices on the West End, while the center of the floor is Reception and the Recording Studio.  Meanwhile, the East End, over half the floor space is…

“Jesus,” I exclaim, when I see the two offices dedicated to just Tuck and Bratt.  The East End of the floor is dedicated solely for deluxe office suites for the show’s two hosts.

Instantly, the décor changes from Grungy College Dorm to Chic Corporate Executive.  Bratt leads me into his office, closing the door behind me.  I stare, my eyes probably bugging from their sockets.  Here, the floor is marble, the walls are rich oak, and each piece of furniture is crafted from gold and brass.  There’s an executive desk (which looks unused), a pool table, a full bar, a double-sized Jacuzzi, massage chairs, and a massive entertainment center.

Oh, and a four-poster bed, draped in satin.  Three guesses why Bratt needs a four-poster bed in his workplace.  It ain’t because he sleeps here.

So…  Not only do Tuck and Bratt squander their staff budget to hire strippers instead of writers, they raped the office budget to give themselves penthouse suites.  Nice.

“Have a seat,” Bratt says grandly, gesturing me to an overstuffed lounge chair, right next to the floor-to-ceiling aquarium.  I settle in.  Wow, this is like parking my butt in a cloud.

“So, I wanted to talk to you about a kind of hazing ritual we have here at ‘Tuck and Bratt,’” the radio host says, pouring himself a tequila shot.  He doesn’t offer me one.

“Yeah?” I say, tensing.  _Hazing_ and _ritual_ are not two words I want to hear right now.

“Oh, relax, Jessica,” laughs Bratt.  “Listen, Tuck ‘n me, we come across as, eh, pretty rude guys when you first get to know us, I know that.”

 _You come across as spoiled rich assholes,_ I think crossly.

“But deep down, we’re not bad,” Bratt assures me.  He gulps his drink, walking to stand before me.  “Listen, new girls always find the first two weeks here to be a little, eh, weird at first.  But then you get to know us and the staff, and we become one big, happy family.”

“Sure,” I say, glancing at that bed.  One big family that sucks on each other’s genitals, no doubt.

“So what’s this hazing ritual?” I ask, hoping to get out of this babe-trap as fast as I can.  If he tries to whip out his cock, I swear I’ll…

“Oh, right,” my boss nods.  “So our listeners know the staff here, because we like to put you girls on the air every now and then.  I was thinking that today, we’ll bring you and… mmm, say Mary Louise out into the studio, give you a mike, and let you talk to the fans.  How’s that sound?”

I immediately think:  **_No fucking way._**

“Uh, I’ll pass,” I demure.  “I’ve really only wanted to produce behind the microphone, never-“

“That’s what I first thought!” Bratt exclaims.  “But when I was first starting out – five years ago – my boss put me on the air once, just once.  I still can’t get enough.”

“I’m… good, really,” I say, my voice a little harder.

Bratt cocks his head to one side, studying me.  He sets down his empty glass, which requires him to lean close to me.  I refuse to budge.

Then, to my complete befuddlement, Bratt hold up one finger.  “See this?” he says.  “See it here?”

I say, “Yeah-“

Suddenly his finger darts in all different directions.  “Look here!” Bratt says rapidly.  “Look here!  Look here!  No, look here!  Look here!”  With each “look here,” his finger has changed positions in the air.

Then the radio host snaps his fingers, loudly.  Right before my face.

I blink, my brain momentarily confused.

“You’re okay,” Bratt tells me, speaking quickly.  “Listen, its almost time for the show, eh?  Com’on.”

Time for the…?  Wait, how can that be?  How long have Captain Skeezy and I been talking?

But Bratt is insistent.  “That’s life in radio,” he tells me confidently.  “Your next show is always hours away, and then **_bam!_**   You’re on.”

He takes my hand, and I allow him to pull me out of the chair.

“Com’on,” Bratt tells me, and I follow him out of his expansive office.  Soon we are heading straight towards the Recording Studio.

Strange, now the lights are on and the place is fully staffed.  The usual posse of topless women are all about, gossiping and working at desks.  What the hey?  Bratt and I were in his office for only, like, five minutes.  Right?

******

 


	3. We're Live on the Air!

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

And then, I am ushered into the Studio, a soundproof room with two big desks for Tuck and Bratt, complete with working computers and sound effect machines.  Across them is a third desk with five chairs.  I guess this is where their guests sit…?

Mary Louise, my deskmate, is already in one chair.  She looks mildly nervous.  As yesterday, she is topless.  I wonder if I’ll ever see this girl in a shirt.

From the center of the room, there are long, robot arms with microphones.  And one entire wall is nothing but glass.  Behind it, I can see sound engineers working away at their machines.  These guys are all middle-aged men.  Although they are engrossed in their work, each pauses to give me and my body an appreciative stare.

Tuck enters, and he and Bratt lower themselves behind their desks.  Immediately, they start activating machines and gizmos, while slapping on headphones.  Its like watching combat pilots climb into their cockpits.

Mary Louise nudges me, indicating I’m to don headphones and grab a mike.  Feeling a little blindsided, I meekly do so.

In my headphones, I can hear the show’s opening music playing.  Heavy Metal.  Ghastly Heavy Metal.  Even Jesse, Frank, or Horace wouldn’t listen to this crap.

“ _Comin’ atcha_ **LIVE** _, its the **Bros Who Knows** , the **Bros Who Impose** , the **Bros None Oppose** , the _**Bros Who Arose to Go As the Shows Goes** _, iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s Tuck and Bratt in the PM!!!_” a rapper’s deep, recorded voice proclaims.  “Let’s y’all make some noise, homies…!!!”

Fake applause rises up, nearly drowning out the awful electric guitars.  As both noises fade, Tuck and Bratt smoothly take over.

A LIVE sign lights up on the wall.

We’re on the air.

“What s’up, Braaaaaaatt?” Tuck exclaims.

“Yo yo yo yo yo Tuckman, Tuckmaster, Tuck Everlasting, Tuckasaurous!” booms Bratt.  “Give up some love, y’all!”

More canned applause.

“What’s goin’ on today, bro?” Tuck drawls, already lighting another of those noxious black cigarettes.

“Oh watch me, brother, watch me,” picks up Bratt.  “You see the news, dawg?”

The two immature shock jocks begin a summary of the news, which pretty much boils down to a one big, vile joke about how Hillary Clinton is PMS’ing, and that’s causing the free world to crash down around us in ruin.  Its so offensive, I really wish I could leave.

But I can’t leave, for some weird reason.  I glance at Mary Louise, who glances back at me.  I can’t read her expression.

The bizarre thing is, Tuck and Bratt are freely conversing with one another… yet neither ever makes eye contact.  Tuck smokes and surfs the web, while Bratt flips through dirty magazines, occasionally holding up a centerfold to show the men in the engineering booth.  If you couldn’t hear what Tuck and Bratt were saying, you’d never guess they were talking to one another.

******

“Okay, enough with the messed-up world, yo,” Tuck announces, signaling the news summary is done.  “What we got for playtime today, Bratt?”

“Glad you asked, brother,” replies Bratt, now grinning at Mary Louise and me.  “We gots us two of our fine, fine ladies in the studio this morning, yo.  Say ‘hello,’ Mary Louise.”

“Hello,” Mary Louise obediently says into her microphone.

“And,” sneers Bratt, now looking right at me, “ here is the newest hottie of our Tuck & Bratt Harem, Jessica.  Say ‘what up,’ Jess.”

 _Aw Jeez_ , I think.  Talk about being put on the spot.

Reluctantly, I quietly clear my throat.  I say, “What up?”

“Oh mates, I wish you could see her,” Bratt leers.  He proceeds to describe my body, and not in an artistic or medical way.

When he gets to my breasts, Tuck can’t help but jump in.  “Oh, Jessica’s ta-ta’s are nice,” he assures the audience.  “I felt ‘em myself yesterday.  How else you think she got the job?”

I feel my cheeks burning with humiliation.  This is not how I pictured my career in broadcast media to go.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Bratt snaps, pretending to be jealous at his partner.  “Now, let’s have a little fun with the girls, eh?”

Tuck pushes a button on his sound effects machine, which plays a clip of male voices chanting, “ _Boobs!  Ass!  Boobs!  Ass!  Boobs!  Ass!_ ”

“Now our regular listeners already know,” Bratt says lazily, “that we like to mind-screw with our ladies here at ‘Tuck and Bratt,’ right?  So right now, both Jess and Mary Louise are **_under hypnosis_** , yo.  They were zonked out before coming on the air, and now we’re gonna have some fun with them.”

Mary Louise and I look at one another in surprise.  Hypnosis?  What is that idiot talking about?

“Of course,” Bratt leers, looking directly at me, “both ladies have been hypnotized to forget they ever went under my spell, yo.  In fact, they have been **_hypnotized to believe_** that **_can’t be hypnotized!_**   On Jessica here, I used a rapid confusion technique.  She never saw it coming.  But I’m inside her mind now.  Ain’t that right, ladies?”

This is ridiculous.  Does Bratt think I’ll play along with this?  I’ve had enough.

“I **_can’t_** be hypnotized, Bratt,” I say loudly and clearly into my mike.

“Uh-oh!” crows Tuck.  “We have a disbeliever!”

“Seriously,” I insist.  “I can’t be hypnotized.  Just can’t happen.”

“What makes you so sure?” Bratt asks me.

Throwing the jerk a condescending look, I say, “Because I’ve never, ever-“

“Penis!” shouts Bratt.

My mind goes blank.  I suddenly cry out, “ ** _I love cock!!!  Cock-a-doodle DOOOOOO!!!_** ”  I crow just like a real rooster.

Tuck and Bratt double over in cruel laughter.

I pause, wondering if I just heard my own voice.  I open my mouth to continue what I was saying-

“Penis!” interjects Tuck.

My mind flickers.  “ ** _I love cock!!!_** ” I yell out.  **_”Cock-a-doodle DOOOOOO!!!_** ” 

The boys guffaw louder.

This time, I was sure I said that… that… that embarrassing phrase.  Ashamed, I clamp both hands over my mouth.  Mary Louise looks at me with a mixture of horror and pity.

“Okay… okay…” Bratt gasps, coming off his belly-laughs.  “One more time, Jessica.  You were saying?”

I slowly withdraw my hands, determined not to-

“Penis!” cries Bratt.

“ ** _I love cock!!!_** ” I shout.  **_”Cock-a-doodle DOOOOOO!!!_** ” 

The boys bust a gut.  The engineers are laughing too.

I shrink down in my chair, wishing I could vanish.

You know that dream where you’re naked in high school and everyone’s pointing and laughing at you?  This is so much worse.

“Ahhhh… man,” Tuck sighs, wiping his eyes.  “You bros out there should see Jess’s face when we trigger her.  Its like, you can see her expression go blank and then she **_has_** to obey us!  Classic…!”

“You want to add to this, Mary Louise?” sneers Bratt.

But before my deskmate can respond, Bratt yells out, “Pussy!”

Mary Louise’s eyes momentarily glaze over.  “ ** _I love pussy!!!_** ” she yelps.  “ ** _MEEEEEEEOOOOW!!!_** ”

Angry, I snap, “Oh, real mature-“

“Penis!”

“ ** _I love cock!!!_**   **_Cock-a-doodle DOOOOOO!!!_** ” 

The two assholes trigger Mary Louise and me for another ten minutes, cruelly springing their commands when we are trying to argue with them.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t resist yelling out my phrase every time I hear ‘penis.’  Its like either jerk says it, and I have no control over my lips for three seconds.

“Okay…” wheezes Tuck, holding his sides.  “Okay, that’s enough.  Bro, what else you got?”

“Mary Louise, **_SLEEP!_** ” orders Bratt.

To my amazement, Mary Louise closes her eyes and drops lifeless onto the desk before us.  She appears to be out cold.

“Mary Louise, on the count of three, you’ll awaken, and believe that you are a raging lesbian,” Bratt orders.  “You’ll see Jess here, and you just can’t help yourself but to get into her pants.”

“Hey,” I say sharply.  “That’s not going to work on-“

“ ** _SLEEP!_** ” Bratt yells at me.

I feel the urge to… well, I’m not sure, but I think my eyes closed for a second.

The sensation passes almost immediately.  I sit up.

“That’s not going to work on me,” I tell Bratt firmly.

“Okay,” the radio host says, quite reasonably.  He leans back in his chair, grinning like crazy.

I hesitate.  Why is the asshole now being so aggregable?  And why-

I happen to glance at Mary Louise… and my heart soars.  Oh!  My!  God!  That girl…!

That girl is gorgeous!

I’m strictly dickly, you understand.  Even in my college years, I haven’t been tempted to try dating a woman.  But now… gazing upon this sex goddess Mary Louise… I wonder how I ever could have looked at men.

Oh my God, this girl is smoking hot!  I stare at her beautiful face, her deep eyes, her high cheekbones, her cute little chin… and those breasts.  Oh, sweet mother!  Those gorgeous, life-giving breasts!

“You’re beautiful,” I gasp to Mary Louise.

“No,” she shakes her head, gazing back at me.  “You’re… so perfect.”

She wants me?  My heart leaps.

Ignoring the men’s harsh laughter, I tear off my headphones and then my shirt and bra.  I want Mary Louise to fondle me, to stroke me, to explore every inch of my womanly body.  I want her fingers, and then her lips, and then her tongue to taste me, from head to toe.  My God… how I **_want her_**.

I leap forward, and Mary Louise and I kiss, our teeth nearly clinking into one another.  Oh, her lips are warm and hot!  I suck at her like a woman emerging from the desert and encountering a sliced watermelon.

At the same time, I feel Mary Louise come alive and kiss me.  Her hands are cupping my breasts; I’m pressing against her, gripping the back of her head with both hands.

We kiss wildly for… oh, I don’t know.  I’m so happy, and I’m so horny for this woman.  The more I kiss her, the more I feel her naked skin against mine… the more I want to cum with her.  The excitement is building between my legs.

I want her.

Trying not to break our out-of-control kiss, I shakily stand, fumbling at my zipper.  The men whoop with delight as I undo my jean shorts, and push both pants and panties down.  Mary Louise pulls back, only to gape in wonder at my nude body.  I’m proud of how I look naked; I’m glad she’s-

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tuck yells, delighted.  “Dude, turn them off!”

Bratt is shouting something, something I don’t care about.  I only want to feel Mary Louise’s fingers inside my-

Suddenly I hear Bratt’s fingers snap.

My thoughts instantly drop.  My arms and legs lose all energy, and I tumble down to the floor.  By a miracle, I land gracefully.  Soon, I am lying peacefully, my body asleep, my eyes closed.  I can hear, but that’s all.  At the same time, I feel calm and euphoric.  I haven’t a care in the world.

“Oh my god, bros!” I hear Tuck exclaim.  “Oh man, we’ve **_got_** to install an Internet camera in here.  You dudes out there, you have no idea what just happened!”

“So, earlier I put the whammy on Jessica and Mary Louise, right?” explains Bratt.  “I told them they were lesbians, and bam!  Those two ho’s were taking off clothes and snogging each other like nutzo!”

“I’m hard, bro,” Tuck says.

“Too much info, dude,” replied Bratt.  “But, yeah, me too.”

“I’m getting a signal from the booth,” announces Tuck.  “We gotta take a commercial.  When we come back, we’re gonna mess with our hypnotized ladies some more.”

“You will go no-where, bros,” Bratt intones solemnly, as if the audience is hypnotized.  The heavy metal music comes back on.

“ _…and, we’re off,_ ” I hear an engineer say through the speakers.

Immediately, Tuck and Bratt high five.  “Oh shit, dude!!!” Tuck crows.  “Where did we find this Jessica chick?  She can’t resist anything you tell her!”

“We’re gonna make a fortune off her,” agrees Bratt.  “Hey…  Can I grab her now?  Can you do the next segment on your own?”

“Dude,” his partner says, no longer sounding jovial.  “You serious?  You want to go off and bone her **_now?_**   While we’re on the air?  For fucking real?”

“You owe me,” argues Bratt.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Tuck retaliates, and I can tell he’s angry.  “Keep your dick in your pants for, like, two more hours, okay?  You have one fucking job on this Earth, that’s to do this fucking show and make sure the sponsors are happy.  You don’t get to hop out to get your dick sucked **_in the middle of a fucking broadcast!_** ”

“I hypnotized her,” boasts Bratt.  “I’ll do what I want-“

“Asshole,” hisses Tuck.  “The rating are down, remember?  Way down.  You remember what those finance people said, right?”

Bratt is silent.

“We can’t be fucking around on-air no more,” Tuck says.  “We need to stay **_focused_** on making this show raw and outrageous and sexy.”  A pause.  “Now, what else can you make these bitches do?”

******

Five minutes later, Mary Louise and I are seated in our chairs, wide awake again, both completely naked.  We are **_completely_** convinced that we are famous sex experts, cheerfully advising our callers to do all sorts of filthy things in the bedroom.

Then Bratt tells us something else, and we are no longer sex experts.  But we are suddenly madly, hopelessly, helplessly in love with Tuck and Bratt.  Mary Louise is smitten with Tuck, and I… I am just gaga for that handsome, sexy, wonderful Bratt.  Ah, Bratt.  You look so cute, so studly…  I wish so much I could crawl under the table and put your cock in my mouth, just to show up how much I love you.

I love you, so deeply, so completely, so utterly.  I hope I never leave your sight.  There’s got to be a way for the both of us to be together forever…

I’m vaguely aware that Tuck is interviewing me about my feelings for wonderful Bratt.  I can only sigh happily and…   Ah…  Bratt…

******

Then… something happens, I’m not sure what… and today’s show seems to be over.  Bratt tells Mary Louise and me to go back to sleep, and we do so instantly.

“ _…and we’re out.  That’s a show,_ ” the engineer announces.

I hear Tuck and Bratt toss aside their headphones.  “Okay, **_now_** can I go bone Jessica?” Bratt asks his partner, his voice thick with resentment.

“Dude,” Tuck protests, annoyed.  “We have the staff meeting for tomorrow’s-“

“Oh **_fuck the staff meeting,_** ” Bratt snaps.  “I was good, I behaved myself in today’s show.  I want my reward.”

Tuck lets out a long, exasperated breath.  “Fine,” he allows, but he doesn’t sound happy.  “But I want you to program Mary Louise to suck me off now.”

“Whatevs,” says the other host, sounding like a sullen teenager.

I hear sneakers approaching me, and then a hand touches my shoulder.

“Jessica,” Bratt tells me, speaking firmly and clearly.  “When you next awaken, you will forget being hypnotized.  You will forget all the crazy shit you just did on today’s show.  In fact, you’ll be completely convinced you have never been hypnotized.  Nod your head once if you understand.”

I let my head bob up and down, once.

“Good,” says my hypnotist.  “One more thing…  When you open your eyes, you are a **_billion percent convinced_** that **_I am your master_**.  Your **_sexual_** master.  You will be eager and willing to do anything, anything to please me.  You.  Are.  My.  Slave.”

Despite my extreme relaxation, some part of my mind tenses at these words.  Hypnotized?  Master?  Slave?  No, that **_can’t_** be…  I **_can’t_** become some bubble-headed sex slave for this-

“When I count to five,” Bratt commands me, “you will awaken, forgetting but obeying all my commands.  Ready?”

While my body and mind is wrapped in this peaceful, submissive slumber and is totally happy to do whatever Bratt wants of me, a small corner of my thoughts grow alarmed.  A slave?!?  I don’t want to be a slave to this asshole!

“One… two…” Bratt counts up.

 _I have to remember,_ I think desperately.  _I’ve been_ **hypnotized** _, I can’t let Bratt’s suggestions..._

******


	4. Bratt's Office

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

“Five!” cries Bratt, snapping his fingers.

I blink, confused.  What…?

“How you feelin’?” a handsome, yet somewhat nasal, voice says to me.

I look up, brushing the hair from my eyes.  Where am I?

Oh.  I’m in the Recording Studio.  Tuck, Bratt, and the engineers behind the glass are watching me closely.  Sitting next to me is Mary Louise, apparently… asleep?  Isn’t the Recording Studio the weirdest place to be sleeping?

“Hey,” the voice repeats.  “How you feeling?”

I look into the face of Bratt.  A coy smile snakes across my lips.

“Fine, Master,” I say demurely.

The instant I call him _Master_ , I know it’s the right title for him.  Bratt is my **_master_**.  I sigh happily as I gaze upon him.

Wasn’t there something I wanted to remember…?  Something I was telling myself before…  Ah, it can’t be that important.

******

Ten minutes later, Bratt my master and I am kneeling before one another on his great bed, kissing.  We are alone in his giant, opulent office / man suite.

Man, he’s **_great_** kisser.  I can’t believe how amazing each press of his lips feels.  Seriously, its like he cast a magic spell or something to make himself a fantastic kisser.  I moan in delight.

As my master kisses me and lovingly cups my breasts, I am furiously working on the zipper of his slacks.  Its some weird European design, and its hard to undo when I can’t see my fingers.

Finally, the zipper descends, and I rake off his pants.

“I want you naked,” I say hurriedly, and force him to adjust his weight so that I can pull off everything below his waist.

Now my master is just wearing a black button-down shirt.  My lips hungrily attack his, overjoyed at this enrapturing contact.  Man, I **_can’t get enough_** of these kisses!

As we play tonsil hockey, my hands slide down my master’s tight abs (he has an amazing body!) and find themselves playing with his cock.  His enormous, engorged cock.  I giggle a little as my fingertips brush his tip, just a little, and I feel his body quiver.

I smile and lean back, breaking our kiss.

There’s a tiny bit of semen already dribbling out of my master’s penis.  Making a long, sexy show of it, I wipe up the joy juice with my index finger, then pop that finger in my mouth, as if I’m tasting frosting on a cake.  As I do, I keep my gaze cast down until the last second.  Once I’ve tasted him, I make eye contact.

“Mmm,” I barely whisper.  “You taste good, master.”

“Fuck me, you’re hot…!” he says in wonder.

I’m delighted by his response.  I may be the sex slave, but I know what will please him better than he does.  I’ve had a few boyfriends who let me do the weird shit with them.  Its time to pleasure my master in the same way they were pleased.

“On all fours, master,” I order briskly.  To punctuate these words, I slap him on the tush, playfully.

My master blinks in surprise, but allows himself to be positioned.  Its like he’s a toy or something.

“There,” I purr.  “Now, close your eyes, and think about… my… pussy…”

I can tell he’s following my instructions, out of curiosity and arousal.

Smiling confidently, I walk on my knees to stand behind him, then spread his butt cheeks with both hands.

“Hey,” he says with alarm, “what are you-“

“ _Shhhhhh…!_ ” I hush him.  Then, I place my thumb directly over his asshole.

At first, he bucks.

“ _Shhh_ , master,” I say, as if soothing a baby.  “Your slave knows what she’s doing.”  As I speak, I press a little with my thumb, then release the pressure.  Then again.  Then again.

I can feel my master’s butt slowly relax as he accepts the pleasure.

“There…” I murmur.  “You **_like_** that, don’t you?”

“Oh God,” mumbles my master.  “I-“

Poor boy, he’s right where I want him.  Without a word, I apply more pressure… and slide my thumb all the way up his asshole.

“Oh shit!” my master squeaks, and his buttocks tense.  Its like a clamp on my hand.

I’m unphased.  I rotate my wrist slowly, then press **_hard_** , right on the magic spot.  The magic spot my master didn’t know existed.  At the same time, I am firmly fondling his tight ass with my free hand.

Now for the final touch… I lean forward, blowing **_just a little_** on his sphincter.

My master lets out a wordless cry, dropping onto his forearms.  His cock, which was starting to flag when I began, is now rock-hard, pointing straight forward.  If I had a third hand and could just touch it, I know it would squirt like a hose.

I complete this technique, proud of how well I performed.  My master trembles, immobilized but happy.  He goes into a sex coma.

Perfect!

After exactly one minute, I slowly withdraw my thumb… then race into the bathroom suite to wash up.  I know I’ll have time; my master is still zonked out with sheer pleasure.

When I get back to the bed, Bratt is lying on his side, his eyes closed, his cock still fully erect.  I smile.  I may be under his spell, but now he’s under mine.  He didn’t count on my secret techniques when he mesmerized me, did he?

I vault back onto the bed, pushing my master onto his back.  Then, I lay atop of him, my head at his cock, my pussy before his face.  Because of what I’ve done to him, he’s still won’t be able to sixty-nine me much, but that’s okay.

I lick his shaft once, twice, three times, then thrust it all the way in my mouth.  I start sucking.

Oh, he’s hard!  So hard.  I can already taste his salty-sweetness beginning to froth.  Its like a sex latte, delivered directly from the penis.  Oh, I want to taste him!

When it comes to oral, I’m more of a Spit than Swallow girl.  Normally, I find cum gross and it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.  Am I the only one who feels this way?  Its something I’ve always wanted to ask my girlfriends, but will never dare.

But now, thanks to the hypnosis, I want Bratt to cum and I’m longing to gulp down every last delicious drop of him when he does.

I suck harder, letting my head rise and fall to wash my lips over his stiff manliness.

Speaking of cumming…  My master is having a hard time concentrating, but I can feel his clumsy lips trying to find my vagina.  I spread my legs wider, repositioning my kitty for easier access.  My master is hopelessly inexperienced in this area, but I don’t care.  I’m more concerned about making him spout than-

Oh!

Oh, yeah!

There he goes.  Bratt is cumming in full force now.

I forgot how much I love that moment when the cock in your mouth suddenly bucks like bull… and then lets loose.  My mouth fills with hot, gooey semen, and I love it.  I make a pleasurable, laughing sound, overjoyed to be tasting so much of my master all at once.  It actually takes discipline to suck and swallow, suck and swallow.

My master grunts beneath me, but disappoints me by running out of semen too soon.  What, did he jack off earlier?  Why would he do that?

Oh well.  I slurp up the last few gulps, happy with what I’ve received.  Maybe once he recovers…

Oh, wait.  My master’s lips…  On my vagina…

Oh, fuck…  He’s found **_my_** spot.  His lips are pressed against mine, and his tongue is almost… almost…  Ohhhhhh…!

I lose focus, feeling that orgasm swelling inside me.  As I gasp, my master’s deflating cock falls from my mouth.  It tumbles away, and I forget about it.

Now, against my will, I am arching my back, sitting up vertically, but keeping my leg muscles tense so that the weight of my body doesn’t crush my master’s face.  He licks and slurps me harder, making quite a mess down there, but who fucking cares, this feels sooooo…  mmmmMMMmmmm…!  Yeah.

Now my master’s tongue is up in my veejay, the tip of his nose is pressing into my asshole, and his hands are clumsily groping my hips and pelvis.  I bounce up and down a little, enjoying the rhythm, trying to guide his organs to the right spots within me.  He’s close, oh fuck me, he’s close, he’s cloooooooooooooo…

…ooooOOOOO ** _OOOHHHHHH!!!_**

I begin gasping and yelling, fondling my own boobs like crazy.  My orgasm ignites, a fire of pleasure and wonderful feeling.  I can’t believe it!  Maybe it is the hypnotic power this man has over me, but… I’ve never tasted such an amazing feeling.

My master probes on, but I can tell he’s getting tired.  But it feels so good, so good!  **_So_** **_GODDAMN FUCKING GOOD!!!_**

I ride him a little more.  When my own Big O starts to wane, I realize my leg muscles are about to give out.  I’ve tensed them long enough.

With a little regret, I hop off my master’s face, marveling at how he managed to breathe between my buttocks that whole time.  Thank God I do a lot of Stairmaster.  Tight butts have their advantages, ladies.

I collapse on the mattress next to my master, my orgasm fading but still powerful.  I plunge my fingers into my pussy, stroking quickly, and enjoy the last few moments of a truly, truly great orgasm.  Oh man, if only all of them could feel like this…!

And then…

Its gone.  Like the sweet ghost it was, my pleasure explosion has come, kissed my vagina, and faded away.  I sigh, wishing there was some way to preserve this feeling forever.

And then, my master and I lay there, spent.  Admiring the custom-painted ceiling.  Letting the flush of our pleasure wash through our sex-happy brains.

Suddenly I hear a cough, and I realize: we’re not alone!

I look up, startled.

There, across the room from us, is Tuck.  He’s eyeing me with a greedy stare, breathing heavily.  His erect cock is out, and he’s stoking himself as he stares at my naked body.

“Dude…” my master mumbles, confused.

Angrily, Tuck strides forward.  He grabs my right leg with his one free hand.

“You had her,” he growls.  “Now I want mine.”

Bratt tries to protest.  “Jessica is mine, bro,” he argues weakly.  “You had Mary Louise-“

“Fuck that stupid bitch,” spits Tuck.  “She’s hot, but she’s got no technique.  I want Jessica.”

I recoil, uncertain what’s going on.

“Dude,” Tuck demands, glaring down at his naked partner.  “You do this for me, or else…”

He doesn’t finish that sentence, but my master seems cowed.  “Okay, okay,” he groans, still not able to sit up.  “Jessica?”

“Yes, master?” I ask automatically.

“When I snap my fingers,” Bratt my master tells me, “Tuck is your sexual master now.”

**_Click!_ **

******

What… just happened?

I’m not sure…  I was just finishing doing reciprocal oral with my master-

Wait.  No.  **_Not_** my master.

I look down at the mattress at Bratt, who looks like he was hit by a truck.  Funny, he seems… well, diminished when he’s naked and his dick has shriveled back to its in-the-pants size.

“Forget about him,” a male voice growls.

I look before me, and there – **_there_** – is my master.  Tuck, my true master, is before me, his beautiful cock out, erect, and pointed at me like a shotgun.

I feel a grin sweep over my face.  My master wants to fuck?

Although I’ve just cum, I’m still wet.  **_So_** wet.  I can take him.

I hop up, getting back up on my knees.  “Get those off,” I order in a raspy voice, pulling at my master’s jeans.

He is taken aback by my demand.  “Hey,” he growls.  “ ** _I’m_** the master here.”

“Yes master,” I agree, but I am not submissive.  I speak rapidly: “I’m so fucking horny for you, master, so fucking horny, I want your cock in my pussy now, NOW, master, now!”

I am babbling in sex-talk, all the while furiously pulling at my master’s pants.  He still seems taken aback… but doesn’t resist me.  Soon his pants are down.  His hips are bare, his butt exposed.  I grab both my master’s butt cheeks, firmly.

“Yeah,” I moan in a deep voice.  I’m amazed at how aroused I am, again.  Its like I haven’t cum in ages.

“Take this,” I order him, putting the back of my knee in one of my master’s strong hands.   There.  Now I can balance on the other knee, right up against the edge of the bed.

I rip my master’s shirt up over his head, then press forward, so he can feel my breasts and erect nipples against his own flesh.  He stares at me, frozen with amazement and arousal.

“That’s right, master,” I groan, surrendering myself to lust.  “Now, fuck me.  Fuck me hard.”

As I speak, I force my arms down between us, and grasp his cock.  In this position, at this angle, his cock and my pussy are at just the right height to one another.

I left myself up a little… and… yes!  Ohhhhhh, yes!!!  He’s in.  Oh, wow, he slid **_all the way in_** in the first thrust!  Fuck me!

I’ve never let a man ram all the way in me before.  I’m so wet and he’s so hard, it was easy.  Feels amazing.

But now, he’s supporting my full weight, with no way to move his hips at all.  I have to work fast, because his knees will tire soon.

“Stare at my tits,” I moan.  “Master, stare at my tits.  Stare at them.”

My master’s wide eyes obediently swing downwards.  There.  They lock onto my mammies.  He can’t look away.

Now that I’ve got him, I begin bouncing up and down on his cock, slowly.  “Look at my tits, master,” I murmur, arching my back a little.  My boobs start bouncing up and down, like two happy little girls delighted to be jumping.

My master stares at them, hypnotized.  His eyes are wide open and his jaw agape.  I laugh quietly, delighted at how he’s putty in my hands.

But then I feel my clit purring, and then the orgasm begins once more.  Briefly, I wonder if I can have sex again so soon after-

Oh, fuck it.  I’m a sex slave, and I’m fucking my master.  This is all I care about in the world.  I want him to cum, to cum like Old Faithful at the anointed magic happy hour.  I bounce harder, starting to grunt quietly as I do.

“Oh my God…!” my master breathes, watching my bouncing breasts fill his field of vision.

I cum first.  I grip my master’s sexy shoulders, singing and gasping with sheer joy, so happy to feel this rainbow of blessing deep within my loins.  This orgasm is different, yet powerful.  So powerful.  I feel myself lose all control over my mind and body.  I must fuck on, like a woman possessed.

My master’s face contorts, his brow wrinkling and his mouth opening wider.  “Ohhhhhhhhhh **_fuck!_** ” he gasps, and then his entire frame spasms.  We barely hang on to one another.

Then his eyes slide back, and I know his cock is pumping his fluids into me.  I sigh happily, enjoying that extra, hot lubrication.  It feels so wet and sticky down there, I’m sure we could slide with off one another without realizing it.

I’m so happy…!

******

 


	5. It All Comes Crashing Down

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

I’m dreaming…  I think…

No, wait.

My thoughts begin to form themselves.  I’m lying down somewhere.    Somewhere cold.  Where am I?

I force my eyes open.  I’m on a floor.  A stone floor.  Oh, right, this is the floor of Bratt’s lavish office.  I’m lying here on the floor next to the bed.

Above me are four bare feet.  I squint, remembering.  Those feet belong to Tuck and Bratt.  Right.

Right.

Fuck me.

I was hypnotized, **_I was totally fucking hypnotized_** by Bratt.  I can remember it all so clearly now.  Earlier, he did this… thing… where he pointed his finger all over the place and it confused me.  And then he said something loud, and the next thing I knew, I was asleep and in his power.  I literally went into a trance in under a second.  How the fuck did he do that?

I shiver.  This floor is freezing.

Then, I was trotted out into the Recording Studio, where I made a total ass of myself on live radio.  And that wasn’t the worst of it.  Oh no, then I was mesmerized to thinking of Bratt and then Tuck were my – **_gack!_** – masters, and I fucked them both within an inch of their lives.

Oh, my stomach is churning.  I want to barf.

Like never before, I thank the Good Lord that I am on the pill.  That fucker Tuck better not have any STDs.

I hear the soft snores of both men, on the bed above me.

Feeling wobbly like you wouldn’t believe, I climb to my feet.  There, on the rumpled mattress, are the shock jocks of Atlanta’s afternoon.  Tuck and Bratt are lying on their backs, both passed out in after-sex sleep.  Bratt is still wearing his black button-down shirt; otherwise, the boys are naked.  Tuck is drooling heavily out of the side of his mouth.

I sneer in disgust at both of these monkeys.  Unbelievable pigs.  They operate the world’s most chauvinistic radio program with the merest competence, mesmerize their pretty young staff to be a mindless harem, and think they are kings of the world.

I hate them.  **_I hate them both_**.

I scowl, looking about.  I’m nude myself.  Where are my clothes?

I search my memory.  I vaguely recall…  I took off my top and bra while in the Recording Studio.  Oh God.  Where my shorts, panties, and shoes are, I have no idea.

Fuck me.

I rub my forehead, wondering what to do.  My body feels like it was licked by a dinosaur; I am sticky and smelly all over.  Especially down by my vagina and butt.

I shiver in the air conditioning.  I need clothes.

As tempted as I am to grab Tuck’s shirt and pants, I just can’t stomach their smell.  So I go to the office door and poke my head out into the corridor.

There, in Cubicle City, are the rest of the “Tuck and Bratt” staffers, working away.  Most of them are semi-naked.  I guess I can walk around in my birthday suit, at least long enough to find my own clothes.

I step out, still embarrassed as the girls look up and see my nakedness.  “Hi,” I say feebly.

But no-one seems shocked.  I guess these poor girls have been hypnotized to think its natural for women to be nude in the workplace.

I gotta get to the Recording Studio.  The only way to get there is through the Reception Area.

Taking a deep breath, I walk briskly, entering Reception in a few strides.  Of course, the building’s snack guys are there, restocking our vending machines.  I go bright red as they stare at me.

“Eyes down, buds,” I mutter angrily.  They comply, shocked at the situation.

“Oh, hey, Jessica,” our receptionist says, unperturbed at my nudity.  “You got a call.  Just after the show started.”  She holds up a piece of paper.

I struggle to read her handwriting:  **_11:30 - Jessica:  Horace called.  Your mom collapsed.  Rushed to hospital._**

******

Without asking permission, I seize the receptionist’s phone and ignore her glare.  My fingers flying, I dial home.  No response.

Luckily, I’ve memorized the number for Mom’s doctor.  The doc isn’t in, but her nurse is.

“ _Hi, Jessica, how are you?_ ” the nurse asks.  Her voice is heavy, as if she’s about to deliver really bad news.

“How’s my mom?” I cry.  My guts are twisting up within me.

“ _One sec, let me call the hospital,_ ” the nurse tells me, and I hear the phone being set down.  There is some muted conversation in the background.  I wait, trembling in fear.

Finally, the nurse picks up.  “ _Your mom’s resting, Jessica,_ ” says the nurse.  “ _She collapsed this morning and had to be rushed into intensive care for emergency treatment._ ”

I begin sobbing in relief.

“ _Jessica?_ ” the nurse asks.

I mumble thanks and hang up.

The snack guys and receptionist watch me with distain, probably thinking, _The naked lady is going crazy_.

I drop to my knees, cradling my face in my hands, weeping uncontrollably.  I can’t take this.  I can’t.  My life has become a piled-up wreck of unsolvable problems.  Mom’s cancer…  The medical bills…  My impounded car…  No money…  My stupid slacker brothers…

And most of all?  Tuck and Bratt.  **_Fucking Tuck_** and **_Fucking Bratt_**.  While I was their entranced plaything, my mother nearly **_died_** and I never knew.  What if she had passed?  What if my last chance to say good-bye, to hug her, was lost because I was bewitched into humping those two…

My fear and despair spill over into rage.  Thick, seething, uncontainable rage.  I grind my teeth.

Ignoring the stares of everyone, I rise to my feet and storm back to Bratt’s office.

******

Tuck and Bratt are still comatose on the bed.  My eyes blazing, I lean over them and grab them by the balls.  Tuck in my left hand.  Bratt in my right.

Then I **_squeeze_**.

Both men jump as if electrocuted.  They scream, and Bratt’s scream is surprisingly high and girl-like.  I don’t care.  Making sure I’ve got their attention, I squeeze again.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” screeches Tuck.  He wildly kicks at me, missing.  Bratt tries to roll away.

Stupid fools.  Now I **_REALLY_** squeeze.

They howl in pain, writhing in agony.  Good.  I grin slightly, letting my hatred take control of the situation.

“Now listen up, dickheads,” I hiss, making sure both men at looking directly at me.  “As the only qualified member of the ‘Tuck and Bratt’ staff, I’m making some recommendations on how to improve the show.  **_Listen good._** ”

“Jesus **_Christ!_** ” wails Tuck.  He stares at his manhood, compressed within my clenched fist.  His eyes are actually welling with tears.  “Jesus **_Christ!_** ”

“Jessica, listen to me,” Bratt says quickly, his voice warbling.  “Look into my eyes, Toots, and when I count from one to-“

I squeeze my fists again, and this time maintain the pressure.  Tuck and Bratt scream again, bucking and flailing.  But they can’t break my iron grip.

“That shit doesn’t work anymore,” I tell Bratt levelly.  “In fact, after today, you’re never gonna do hypnosis again.”

Tuck is babbling quietly, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“ ** _You stupid cunt!!!_** ” cries Bratt.  “You’re so **_fired!_**   And… you’re sued!  You’re **_fucking sued_** , you hear me?”

I shake my head in disbelief.  “You two,” I say angrily.  “You’re the stupidest pair of dickheads I’ve met in a long, long, **_looooooooooong_** time.  You know **_why?_** ”

Bratt gazes at me, afraid.  “Why?” he asks fearfully.

“You morons **_hypnotized me_** on live radio,” I tell him.  “So when I go to the police and tell them I was hypnotized and then raped here, what do you think is gonna happen next?  What happens when the cops start interviewing the other girls?”

Neither man responds.  For once, they have nothing to say.

“Yeah,” I growl.  “You two shits are **_fucked_**.  Totally fucked.  Like, **_decades in prison_** for sex crimes.  I hope your rectums enjoy getting resized.”

Suddenly the air stinks; I think Tuck is shitting himself.

******

 


	6. Epilogue

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, multiple characters are coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

Three months have passed, thank God.  I’m beginning my final semester of classes.  It will be a heavy load, but now that I have the MS Internship out of the way, I can just hunker down and be a student again for one last semester.  Feels good.

I am a little late for class, but I need to make a phone call.  Noting the chillier September winds, I hurry across campus, heading for the Student Union.  I can use a privacy room to make a phone call there.

Three minutes later, the secretary at Lamber and Miller is patching me through to Christy Miller, my lawyer.  I like Christy.  She’s, like thirty years older than I am, but she and I get along like sisters.

“ _Hi Jess,_ ” Christy says brightly once my call is connected.  “ _How’re things?_ ”

“Great,” I say honestly.  “Just wanted to check in.”

My attorney gets down to business.   “ _Things are looking pretty good,_ ” she tells me.  “ _The slimeballs’ new office is done, and they’re moving in today.  They’re complaining like my mother-in-law, but they’re complying._ ”

I smile, letting out a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding in.  The “slimeballs,” of course, are Tuck and Bratt.  Christy has them corralled like sheep.

Mere hours after assaulting Tuck and Bratt’s balls, I retained Christy.  It was the single smartest thing I could have done.  Her firm specializes in sex assault cases.  Aghast at my tale, Christy **_immediately_** had me take a rape kit, which confirmed that Tuck had entered me.  Between that and my broadcast performance while hypnotized, we had all the evidence we needed to threaten WWGX with the mother of all lawsuits.

(Of course, Christy and I don’t have an actual recording of the show where I was under hypnosis, but stupid Tuck and Bratt don’t know that.  They now live in fear that my take-no-prisoners lawyer and I will pulverize them in court or in the court of public opinion.)

Christy and I run “Tuck and Bratt in the PM” now.  The first thing we did was hire real hypnotherapists to de-hypnotize all the staffers.  Most of the ladies kinda knew they were hired for their tits and quietly accepted a nice severance package.  But stupid Bratt got two other staffers pregnant, so I guess he’s off dealing with that.

I also saw to it that the seventh floor of 646 Maple was bulldozed, scrubbed, and then rebuilt as a proper, working office.  No more cramped cubicle hell.  No more mancave penthouses.  Now everyone works from their own open, spacious desk, and there’s equal room for all.

Oh, and there’s one more important change on the show.  Tuck and Bratt hired three guys I know to come on board and serve as **_real_** executive producers.  Jesse, Frank, and Horace were a little rusty at first, but they discovered a knack for building a show that’s still raunchy, offensive, and sexist… but at least it is competently produced.  Ratings are up.  In a month, I’ll be able to step away entirely, and the show is their baby.

“Sounds good,” I smile as Christy finishes her update.  “Now just send me your bill.”

“ _Relax,_ ” responds Christy.  “ _Your brothers already paid me.  You just focus on your schoolwork.  I’m awaiting_ **your** _first radio program with bated breath._ ”

I blush, thank her, and hang up.  Now to hurry off to class.

I know what you’re thinking.  I should have sued Tuck and Bratt for millions, then flown off to my own private island, right?

I considered it, I’ll admit.  But that would have meant that I alone would have profited, and there were lots of other people in the mix here.  Forcing Tuck and Bratt to make a proper radio program without the hypnotized sex slaves, well, it just helps everyone.

Sometimes the big picture is about more than just you.

******

Four hours later, I arrive home.  I have some studying to do, but I need to pause for a moment before I hit the books.

In the TV room, my mom is resting on the couch, watching Wheel of Fortune.  She’s exhausted, but there’s a little color in her cheeks.  I break into a smile when she looks up at me.

“Hi honey…” she murmurs.  “I tried… to stay awake to see you.”

I kneel before her, putting a hand against her forehead.  “You should be sleeping, Mom,” I chide her.  I click the TV off.

Now that Jesse, Frank, and Horace are fully employed, we have long-term benefits again.  Mom’s responding well to treatments.  She’s actually given up cigarettes, because, well, we have hope now.  But there’s still a long way to go.

“You… look… nice…” my mother breathes.  Her eyes close and her smile fades as she drifts off to sleep.

I smile, my eyes bright with tears.  I kiss her on the forehead, and then hurry off to study.

******


End file.
